


Thirty hits back.

by NightsMistress



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-06 13:01:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4222656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightsMistress/pseuds/NightsMistress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gregor hits thirty, and Ivan is his unlikely confidante.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirty hits back.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [james](https://archiveofourown.org/users/james/gifts).



> Thank you to egelantier for the beta!

The Emperor’s Birthday was not one of Ivan’s favourite ways to spend his nights. While it had the advantage of very good wines that he didn’t have to pay for – which he appreciated on general principles – it had the marked disadvantage of being one of the places where all of his attempts to pick up women were done under the disapproving eye of his mother. That did tend to kill his libido, especially given that he would be limited to looking and dancing only.

Ordinarily Miles would be with him, making sardonic political commentary of the guests while they all mutually pretended that Miles Vorkosigan, Vor Mutie, was not in attendance. The judgments had been less frequent as they had gotten older and Miles had demonstrated a terrifying ability to charm everyone he met, but Ivan was somewhat relieved that Miles was not here today.

Only somewhat. Because if he had to suffer through Mamere playing matchmaker, then Miles should be suffering too.

Instead, after the fifth – or was it sixth? – introduction with a Vor maiden whose name and bloodlines he supposed were very good, Ivan was desperately looking for an escape. He snagged a bottle from a rather too knowing totally-not-ImpSec-officer waiter, and slipped out to a garden nearby where he knew he’d have some privacy prior to going back.

However, he wasn’t alone, and judging by the other person standing here, he was not the only one who found this stage of the party frustrating.

Ivan exchanged sardonic nods with Gregor. If Ivan disliked the show pony routine of the Emperor’s Birthday, then surely the man whom the celebration was ostensibly for would dislike it more. It would, of course, all be easier if Gregor hurried up and got married and had half a dozen kids. Ivan appreciated why he hadn’t yet. Gregor’s fear of the insanity that ran through his family was a well-kept secret, along with Miles’ bipolar moods. Any head shrinker that got their hands on them would have a field day, not that anyone ever would tip them off. It just didn’t _do_ to out family to psychiatrists. Ivan’d never get them back.

“Evening, Sire,” Ivan said.

“Evening, Ivan,” Gregor replied, leaning against a decorative pillar. Ivan had wondered what those were used for, other than leaning against. Apparently, so had Gregor.

“You got away from your babysitters?”

“As much as I ever do,” Gregor observed wryly, nodding towards the hedges that delineated the garden at what Ivan assumed was his bodyguard detail. He couldn’t see them, but he supposed that was the point. They were meant to be discreet, after all.

“How does it feel to be thirty?” Ivan asked. Thirty seemed like a rather magical age, young enough to play the field without being the dirty old man, yet old enough to be free of Mamere’s unwanted interest in his girlfriends. He didn’t think Gregor would be taking advantage of his age in that way though, far too cerebral and self-contained. Besides, Aunt Cordelia would probably _encourage_ it. Lucky sod.

“Much like twenty-nine,” Gregor said.

“Ah,” Ivan said. “Is that why you’re hiding from the herd?”

Gregor’s lips quirked. “Quite.”

“Miles sends his regards,” Ivan said. “And that he’s sorry he couldn’t make it in person.”

“It’s a pity,” Gregor said. “I had missed his commentary. They tended to liven up the evening.”

“Aw, it’s not so bad,” Ivan said. “In a few hours we’ll have the unofficial competitive vomiting, that’s always fun.”

“Just the way I want my birthday honoured,” Gregor said acerbically. He was very good at acerb. Ivan wondered if it was an artefact of growing up with Uncle Aral or whether it was an innate trait. “I wonder what it would be like to have a quiet birthday.”

Ivan, who celebrated each birthday by burning a hank of hair for a father he had never known, said “It does have less Vor matrons running around.”

“Lady Alys is still matchmaking? My sympathies.”

They shared a grimace.

“I’ve heard you’ve got another posting off-world,” Gregor said.

“Put my hand up for every one I can get,” Ivan said. “M’mother can’t insert herself into my chain of command if I’m off-world.”

“Have you ever gone off world?”

“Unofficially, once,” Gregor said. “A while ago.”

“Really?” Ivan said. “I’d never heard of that.”

“It was with Miles.”

Ivan thought about this. He was not a fan of puzzles, not the least because he had had no practice in solving them, and it was a bone of frustration between him and Gregor that Gregor seemed to love to give them out. Under Gregor’s mild gaze, which Ivan suspected he had learned from Illyan given its penetrating effect, Ivan found himself uncomfortably in the position of a schoolboy being examined on reading he hadn’t done yet. Where could this have happened? Miles had been out doing God knows what, occasionally moonlighting as the lieutenant he was. He knew that it hadn’t been while they were on Cetaganda or Earth because Miles had been with him. There was only a three year gap.

He sucked in a breath. He knew exactly when it had happened. He had _wondered_ about how Gregor and Uncle Aral had set up that joint defence force at Pol, because it had simply not made sense from an Ops perspective. The official report had seemed damned near _miraculous_ in timing and arrangement of resources. Ivan considered himself good at managing these sorts of things, but he hadn’t understood how Uncle Aral had done it. Apparently, by having two members of his family on the ground.

It made his head hurt. He wasn’t supposed to know these kinds of secrets, dammit, they were entirely against his long-term strategy of being as apolitical as possible.

Gregor was watching his face with a hint of dry amusement. “You’ll have to stay quiet about that.”

“Why would you tell me that?” Ivan wailed fervently.

“It seemed like a good idea.” Gregor sounded far too cheerful, even given the fact that he was indulging in what Ivan privately thought of as the Vorkosigan family sport of mocking Ivan whenever possible. Even for a man whose personal motto was ‘let’s see what happens’, this was far too frivolous. Something was up.

Ivan frowned, and then studied Gregor through the admittedly foggy lenses of having overindulged earlier on Gregor’s wine. He was still as quietly self-contained as he usually was, but there was something looser about the way he was standing, as if a tension had been released. Ivan’s mind raced, was he slipped something in his drink? Was there a plot? Surely not, ImpSec was all over the catering, from the canapés to the wine list…

Oh shit. Ivan was alone with his Emperor, who was probably three sheets to the wind. Or at least, mostly alone. Thank God for his security detail.

“How much have you had?” Ivan was pleased that it came out as a question rather than a groan.

“Oh,” Gregor said. He frowned and now that Ivan was looking for it he had no idea how he missed how drunk Gregor was. “I lost count after the fifth introduction.”

Ivan had observed at least ten more, in amongst avoiding his own showing amongst the Vor ladies as if he were a prize stallion. He winced in sympathy of Gregor’s future hangover. He guided Gregor over to a nearby garden bench, conscious of how awful it would look if Gregor passed out in his own vomit.

Once seated safely on the bench, Gregor sighed as if he had been punctured and all the air inside him was leaking out. It was a terrible mental image, and Ivan used the light to make sure that wasn’t actually true. He then sat down next to Gregor, to act as a prop if nothing else. This close, he could smell the alcohol on Gregor. The man must have the alcohol tolerance of … well, Ivan.

“I hate this,” Gregor confided, extending his hand and sweeping across the garden. “All of this.”

“We could get you a new garden,” Ivan said brightly.

Gregor grunted. “You don’t have to play the idiot with me,” he said. “I see your performance reviews.”

“Oh.” Ivan frowned in consternation. He was happy to sabotage his personal affairs to avoid political consequences, but he did take pride in his work. It would be awful if his desire for order got him earmarked as someone important. “Why?”

“Curiosity,” Gregor said on a sigh. “You and Miles both go to such interesting places.” He slouched further against Ivan’s shoulder. “I wish I could just leave all of this.”

“Um,” Ivan said. Where was Gregor’s detail? Were they even there? What was the point of a discreet security if they weren’t there when you needed them?

“I’ve thought about it,” Gregor went on dreamily. “Just running away and joining a mercenary fleet or something. Do it properly and never come back.”

Miles had a great deal to answer for. Bad enough that he had gone and created his own private army and then given it to Barrayar, but now he was an example to Gregor?

“I’m glad you haven’t?” Ivan said, and meant it.

“Afraid to be Emperor?” Gregor’s voice was far too shrewd for someone as drunk as Ivan knew he was.

“Too right I am. Could you imagine what kind of mess I’d leave it in?”

“It would go on,” Gregor said. “The Imperium is more than its Emperor. That’s why they leave our ancestors’ body parts in the museums. It’s a reminder.”

“Euch,” Ivan said, who had carefully avoided entertaining such thoughts for years. If this was what Gregor occupied his time with, no wonder he always looked so depressed.

“Y’know, that’s really not true,” Ivan said. “About anyone doing your job, not the body parts thing. I know that’s true, and seriously, why do we keep them around? Do we like giving little Vorlings nightmares?”

Gregor was regarding him with the kind of bemusement employed by drunks and madmen, but he wasn’t talking about running away – and was it running away _again_ , was that why he was in Polian space in the first place? Ivan’s head hurt trying to keep track of it all. Still, Gregor was silent, which Ivan took as a sign to keep going.

“You’re too hard on yourself. Sure, anyone could be Emperor, but keeping it? Keeping all those old fossils pointed the right direction? I’d go insane in a week. And Miles? We’d have some Betan democracy within the day.”

“That wouldn’t be too bad,” Gregor mumbled.

“Only until they voted you in every time,” Ivan said sardonically. “You’re too good at the job. Who would want it?”

“Who indeed?” Gregor sighed. He said nothing more, but his breathing plateaued out and he rested heavily against Ivan’s side. Carefully, not wanting to jostle Gregor, Ivan looked down and confirmed that the Emperor of Barrayar was in fact unconscious and half sprawled against him.

He was not drunk enough for this, Ivan decided, and took a swig from the bottle he had brought with him. Then another in quick succession.

He had made good progress on the bottle by the time a mild, unmemorable man made his way through the bushes. Simon Illyan looked like a school teacher rather than the most terrifying man in the Imperium, and Ivan was sure that he did that on purpose. Ordinarily, Ivan was too apprehensive of him to say much of anything, but half a bottle of wine and Gregor’s dead weight on his arm made him thoughtlessly bold.

“Where the hell have you been?” Ivan hissed. Then his brain caught up to his mouth and he hastily added “Sir.”

“Around,” Illyan said vaguely, which Ivan suspected was his due. Who was he to demand answers from the Head of ImpSec? He wasn’t _Miles_. Illyan then nodded at Gregor. “How is he?”

“Drunk? Passed out?” Ivan said without thinking. “Also drooling on me.”

“His escorts will be here soon to take him away.”

“Um,” Ivan said. “Through the party?”

The look Illyan gave him could have frozen a fire. “Discretion is part of their training.”

“Oh. Good.” Ivan looked down at Gregor, who was now drooling on his tunic. “Poor bastard can’t even get drunk at his own birthday without it causing a ruckus.”

“It’s the price we pay for stability,” Illyan said, which was such a startlingly human observation that Ivan looked back up at him in surprise. Illyan was looking down at Gregor with a degree of fond sadness, and Ivan remembered that Illyan had been responsible for Gregor’s safety since he was five years old. That would engender a degree of fondness, Ivan supposed. He tried not to think about that overly much, as Illyan had also been responsible for _his_ safety since he was born as well.

“Where are his detail?”

“Nearby,” Illyan said. “You’re hardly a security risk, Ivan.” He paused, before adding honestly, “At least, not while Miles is off-world.”

“Thanks,” Ivan said sourly.

Illyan did something to the ever-present earpiece. Ivan assumed, if not hoped outright, that it was summoning said security detail. The silence stretched out uncomfortably, interspersed only by Gregor’s quiet snoring.

“Aren’t you going to tell me not to talk about this or what he was saying to anyone?” Ivan blurted out at last.

Illyan studied him for a moment. It was quite chilling. Ivan wanted to hide, and he hadn’t even done anything _wrong_. It wasn’t fair. “No,” Simon said finally. “I don’t need to.”

“I don’t even know what that _means_ ,” Ivan complained. He shook Gregor gently. “C’mon Gregor, wake up, the paranoid men want to take you away.”

Gregor mumbled something in protest. By the time he was semi-upright, his escort of two dour, humourless men had arrived. Unlike the catering staff, these two were dressed as ImpSec, eyes on their collars and all. Gregor went along with them easily enough, which in a way was sad. Ivan didn’t know until Gregor had gone that he had almost hoped that Gregor had waved them off.

Illyan nodded at him, and then melted back into the foliage. Ivan didn’t want to even think what that meant. Instead, bottle in hand, he stood up, straightened his tunic, and rejoined the party.

* * *

The next morning, Ivan woke up in his apartment, wearing just his underwear, with a dry mouth, a spectacular headache, and three messages.

The first was from Miles, jangly with suppressed tension and adrenaline, asking him to let him know how the party went. Ivan sent off a brief, laconic message about how the drinking competition had gone. Ivan had not won it, being secluded away on impromptu Emperor-sitting for the start of it, but he had heard that it was impressively won by one of his distant cousins. Good on them, keeping up the family reputation.

The second was from Mamere, asking him to call her about his attitude towards one or more of the Vor ladies she had sent his way. Ivan was about as interested in having the call as he was in having a root canal done, so he deprioritised it on his comm console to be dealt with ‘soon’.

The third was from Uncle Aral, which woke Ivan up in a shock. What had he _done_ to deserve Uncle Aral so early in the day? Surely he hadn’t been so drunk to forget it? Was it his being insubordinate to Illyan? But Miles did that all the time?

With trembling fingers, Ivan played back the message. It was fortunately short, with Uncle Aral looking less impassively terrifying than normal. That did mean that he wasn’t in a temper, at least.

“Ivan. Simon told me about last night.” He paused, and Ivan felt ill. _What part?_ “You did well. Good work, son.” The call terminated.

Oh. This was why, even after Great Uncle Piotr’s death, Miles would crawl across barbed wire for Uncle Aral’s approval. It must be addictive, knowing that you could get that affection bestowed on you. What would it be like, to know that such a thing was even possible?

Ivan snorted at himself. No point thinking about that. It wouldn't be long before everyone forgot and he got called 'That Idiot Ivan' again. For now, he had a message to his mother to compose.


End file.
